LXXVI. But this is not my theme; and I return LXXVII. Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau, The apostle of affliction, he who threw Enchantment over passion, and from woe Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew The breath which made him wretched; yet he knew How to make madness beautiful, and cast O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they past The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and fast. LXXVIII. His love was passion's essence-as a tree In him existence, and o'erflowing teems Along his burning page, distemper'd though it seems. This breathed itself to life in Julie, this Invested her with all that's wild and sweet; This hallow'd, too, the memorable kiss Which every morn his fever'd lip would greet, From hers, who but with friendship his would meet; But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast Flash'd the thrill'd spirit's love-devouring heat; In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest, Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest. LXXX. His life was one long war with self-sought foes, 'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind. To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning show. LXXXI. For then he was inspired, and from him came, Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore, Till by the voice of him and his compeers, Roused up to too much wrath, which follows o'ergrown fears? LXXXII. They made themselves a fearful monument! The wreck of old opinions-things which grew Breathed from the birth of time: the veil they rent, And what behind it lay, all earth shall view. Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour re-fill'd, As heretofore, because ambition was self-will'd. LXXXIII. But this will not endure, nor be endured! Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt. They might have used it better, but, allured By their new vigour, sternly have they dealt On one another; Pity ceased to melt With her once natural charities. But they, Who in Oppression's darkness caved had dwelt, They were not eagles, nourish'd with the day; What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey? LXXXIV. What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? That which disfigures it; and they who war With their own hopes, and have been vanquish'd, bear Silence, but not submission: in his lair Fix'd Passion holds his breath, until the hour Which shall atone for years; none need despair: It came, it cometh, and will come,—the power To punish or forgive-in one we shall be slower. LXXXV. Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake, That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved. LXXXVI. It is the hush of night, and all between Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen, Save darken'd Jura, whose capt heights appear Precipitously steep; and drawing near, There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more; |